


Know You Better

by kentucka



Category: Frontier (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Hate to Love, Introspection, Vaginal Fingering, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 15:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10789446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kentucka/pseuds/kentucka
Summary: After Grace warns him off, Captain Chesterfield finds that he can't help but actually obey.(For 6,000+ words, this one has astoundingly little plot.Goes AU in the last episode of season 1, and a little bit of a fix-it for their fight at the ale house. The rape threat didn't happen.)





	Know You Better

**Author's Note:**

> I love the two (!!! what's up with that?) other fics for this pairing, which are a bit more on the hate sex side, but I needed something with that cinnamon hint of potential for a happy end.  
> This is 90% due to Chesterfields reaction to the lashing confirming all sorts of fledgling headcanons I had about his character. The remaining 10% are the beard... Who am I kidding, it's the other way around.

“Malcolm Brown is drunk, and he’s grieving.” Grace stood by the curtain while he paced the narrow room, forced to turn every other step, which fit his agitation just fine.

“I’m gonna gut him like I gutted his brother,” he snarled, a promise to himself. There would be blood on his knuckles, its stench in his nose and its taste on his teeth. He wanted the sheer satisfaction of doing everything to Malcolm Brown just as he’d described so vividly.

Maybe Grace had read on his face what he’d been thinking, because she started anew. “You want to be Governor? Don’t get caught up in that nonsense. Keep your focus - and your focus is Benton.”

Of course she was right. There would be time to deal with Brown, later. It would be easier, too, once he was Governor. So he took a couple of deep breaths, slowed his pacing.

“There’s been a development,” Grace continued, and he did not like the sound of that at all. When he faced her, she shifted, visibly nervous, and talked more quickly. “I sent a letter to Montreal offering to sell Samuel Grant our stolen furs.”

For a second he stood dumbfounded. Surely, she wouldn’t be so stupid? “A letter? Without informing me?” Written correspondence that could tie them to the pelts! She’d created solid evidence of their crime. His heart started racing again, in anger, in  _ fear _ . “We could hang for this.”

With every step that he advanced on her, she backed away, yet she pressed on. “The issue is that he’s here. At the Fort.”

“Ah, Jesus Christ!” What Benton would make of the fact that one of the largest private fur traders had made his way to Fort James? He’d smell the rat— rats, two of them in their case— and he’d smoke them out.

“He showed up with some thug. They’re over at the Governor’s house right now.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snapped, thumping her against the wall by her neck. Gratifyingly his fingers easily covered most of it, giving him a secure hold. Finally there was a way he could steer  _ her _ . “This is the consequence of you keeping your schemes from me. We’re as good as dead!”

“Calm down,” Grace whispered, the suggestion of a nod within the confines of his grip, imploring him to listen and release her. Those words again. They had worked miracles on his temper before.

She had him figured out so quickly. At first the fear in her eyes had belied the resolute stance, the steel of her voice. But it had taken her no time at all to dig her fingers into the cracks of his asperity. She had appealed to his ambition, his greed; even if she hadn’t yet understood what had begotten his ruthlessness, she had mastered it.

_ Take what you wish. Take what those who stand above you would not give you freely. Be cunning about it; do not let them see you coming, until it is too late to stop you. _

Maybe he wasn’t special at all, in this regard. Up here in the cold North, nobody ventured who weren’t looking to better themselves against all odds. Except those trying to lose themselves.

She started a risky business, but Grace understood how to play all sides. More than the ale, information was her trade, and she remembered all that might come in useful, to reveal at the most opportune moment. Accomplice to her sale of skimmed pelts, a single word from her in the right ear would have him killed. It was her contingency in case he ever decided to act against her, despite the promise of wealth and power.

_ Calm down _ , the hushed words still rang in his ear. How often had she said them, and reminded him of their common goals. No matter his anger with her, his frustration over her endless scheming which made the shift of her loyalties unpredictable, she was still crucial to his own advancement.

His hand tightened again. How he wished he could hurt her. Pound his fist into her face until she accepted that he was no pawn in anyone’s game. And yet—

“You’re driving me mad!” he shouted, watched her eyes widen in shock at how little his rage had abated, how little magic her words held today. But it also shook him, just a heartbeat later, because it was a confession he hadn’t ever meant to make, not voiced out loud, never  _ to her _ . Because she would find use for this weakness, too.

Grace swallowed with some difficulty, her throat working against his palm. “Captain Chesterfield,” she tried again, “we have an arrangement. I intend to hold up my end.”

At that he laughed without humor. “There is no doubt in my mind,  _ Miss Emberly _ , that you will see me killed the minute I have served my purpose.”

Because how was she different from Benton? There was only cold-calculating intelligence where remorse may have sat in either of their hearts. There was no trusting them except that they would eventually stab him, shoot him, or have him hanged.

He liked his chances of outmaneuvering Benton, the sadistic megalomaniac, who was thoroughly distracted by Declan Harp.

But Grace planned for every eventuality. She used others as cannon fodder to navigate the wild North’s lucrative fur trade battlefields, and it made his eyes blur with double-vision. Here she was the kind woman who’d rather emancipate a whore than rid herself of a spy, gutsy enough to proposition the highest ranking officer to commit treason. And there a two-faced demon, allying with all her enemies and telling them each what they needed to hear to obliviously do her bidding.

It stung somewhere deep in his chest knowing that betrayal was inevitable with her as well, and she was smart as a whip besides, so it would be quite the challenge to stay ahead.

“If you think so, there ain’t much I can do to put your paranoid mind at rest.” Her voice had turned to ice. “But unless you actually follow through with your threats? You better not touch me ever again without my permission.”

He almost flinched back at the words, desperately fearing that he had pushed her even further away, the opposite of what he wanted—  _ wanted— _ before he caught himself. Another deliberate moment, establishing that he merely indulged her, not following her  _ command _ , then he did release her. 

And hoped against hope that she had not noticed his first impulse. It seemed to be a theme of his dealings with her; whenever he moved to take back control, even the smallest bit, he only succeeded in giving her more ammunition to keep him compliant.

The entire time, her hands had lain flat against the wall at her back. So certain was she that she could talk him down from his homicidal urges. That she had tamed him.

Now she tugged her stay and coat back into place, and without a further word walked back into the common room of the ale house.

*

Dreams found him standing on the stoop outside his house, his arms wrapped around Grace from behind, her head resting against his shoulder. They watched their son, a couple years old, who waded into the snow that had fallen over night, knee high, reaching the little one's armpits. It looked hilarious and they laughed. He pressed a kiss against her temple, so she turned into him.

In bed she lay underneath him, both naked and sweating. He put his head on her chest, listened to her heart still galloping from her recent orgasm, so he did not understand immediately when she said something. He rose up in his elbows. But her face had become a grimace. “I told you not to touch me!” she screamed with pained outrage. He reared back in shock—

—straight out of the dream, sat up in his own bed, panting.

He had no idea what he was feeling, but it was ugly and hollow.

*

Benton was dead. Benton was  _ dead. Benton was dead. _

He repeated the thought in his head, looped the memory of seeing first Father Coffin fall, then Lord Benton.

_ Benton was dead.  _ He grinned to himself. It was liberating.

With Johnson (the only one who may have had the rank to question him) killed as well, and Everton’s troop released and fed as his first order upon regrouping his men (portraying the loyal soldier who had only ever followed orders no matter his opinion of them), he would likely be accepted as acting Governor, until such time as official commission could be received.

The only fly in the ointment was that he'd failed to contain Harp, failed to kill him on the gallows. His one chance to… what? Why had he even gone back and fired his pistol? Harp had only ever been Benton’s arch enemy. He wasn’t a threat anymore, now that Benton was dead. Not to the fort. Likely not even to the Hudson’s Bay Company.

But still competition. Was it jealousy? Envy? Well, he was just a man. He was fallible. And who could blame him for trying to simplify his life? With Harp out of the picture, would Grace maybe feel more amenable to the idea of becoming the new Governor’s wife?

He found her easily: the kitchen of her ale house had all but transformed into a field hospital, her maids and a couple of villagers tending to Father Coffin laid out on the table, bustling with boiling water and bloody rags. She stood back and watched while the midwife plucked out the lead ball embedded in the Father’s shoulder, then cleaned the hole for a seasoned seamstress to sew it up.

When Grace noticed him standing in the doorway, holding the curtain aside, her worried frown deepened into disapproval.

“A word, Miss Emberly,” he asked with a nod towards her private office.

It took a long moment for her to decide, but eventually, she followed.

“Benton is dead,” he greeted her with, because he liked the sound of it. And he was not sure if the news had reached her yet. He hadn’t seen her at the hanging, but she might have witnessed it from the shadows.

She just nodded, indifferent. “That would leave you in charge ‘round here, congratulations.” Her voice was entirely devoid of emotion, her expression wary. She had no reason to expect him to stand by their agreement, he supposed, now that he had reached his goal.

“Harp yet lives,” he added instead. He watched her closely for a reaction, and it was one barely recognizable at all before the inscrutable mask fell back over her eyes. Wonder, yes; hope, maybe. The lack of a biting remark about his poor marksmanship led him to believe that she had indeed not been watching, not even from a safe distance.

Good. No reason to divulge this particular piece of information, not when it hadn’t changed the outcome.

Grace went to stare into the fireplace, surely wondering where Harp had gone off to, half-dead as he had been even before the noose. But ever the unpredictable mind, she astonished him again when he handed her a glass of her own French brandy.

“It seems we find ourselves in a new status quo, Acting Governor Chesterfield.” She threw back a swig of the brandy as if in toast. “I daresay you needn’t worry about your purse anymore, now that you hold all the power the North has to give.”

_ Thanks to my help _ , was implied. 

He clenched his jaw, pacing away, needing no reminder of her meddling. Hiding the Indian boy to gain the Lakewalkers’ trust. Lining up Grant as buyer for their otherwise useless furs. The ceaseless whispers in his ear about pressing his advantages through the most obscure opportunities. It would have all summed up to a rather nice partnership, if only he were certain that her advice had gone exclusively to him. No, Grace never bet all her money on just one horse.

“Brown!” he yelled suddenly, a connection he hadn’t made before. “Jesus Christ, you lunatic woman! You put him up to it!” He rounded on her, blocking her path to the door.

Grace’s eyes had gone wide and panicked again, like they had in the beginning whenever she'd been uncomfortably the center of his attention; it was all the confirmation he needed. She immediately schooled her features and retreated further into the room, attempted to side-step him to escape, but he was too quick.

“What was it, Grace? Hm?” he demanded, pointing an accusatory finger in her face, advancing still. “Was I becoming too difficult to control? Too dangerous?”

Backed into a corner, she hurled the tumbler at him, but it thumped against his red wool coat, harmless except for a dull ache, before shattering on the ground.

“You couldn’t use me as Governor anymore? Did you realize that you hadn’t nearly enough leverage to pull my strings once I was in office?”

His hands were reaching forward again; she was within arm’s reach now, and his fingers would settle in a familiar spot around her neck—

“Chesterfield, stop.  _ Jonathan _ .”

_ DON’T TOUCH ME! _

—he jerked back.

Bewildered, for a second, they stared at each other.

And then it hit him, what he’d done. Just how much she had him under her thumb. “Fuck!” he roared, meaning to grab at her again, but no, he couldn’t. His hands hovered in the air uselessly, balled into fists. Damn it all to hell, he couldn’t –wouldn’t– injure her. That witch had managed it at last; she’d fucking muzzled him, broken him.

Now it was his turn to be terrified. Because this meant… it meant she held the ultimate advantage. Malcolm Brown was still-breathing proof that she had no such compunctions. She would have him killed, just like he’d predicted.  _ Unless you actually follow through…  _ The betrayal had already taken place, and yet it still wasn’t enough to break her spell.

She would try again, with more finesse. She would succeed.

She would have him killed and he was too much in love to stop her.

Defeated, he stepped aside, and let her flee.

*

For days, he tended to the fort’s business, making changes to how Benton had run things with which he had always disagreed. He appointed men he deemed faithful and had under control, ordered a new magazine to be built, had the gallows dismantled, and saw to Everton’s and Father Coffin’s care. The fur trade slowed as the snow rose, but he filled his schedule with reevaluations of ration distribution and returning items Benton had wrongfully confiscated.

It earned him an esteem he wasn’t used to, and didn’t trust to last. Winters were long and cold and dark; people were bound to object to his decisions when provisions ran low.

Once the reorganization was finished, he kept himself busy still, read ledgers, gave orders, drilled his men, signed documents, paid trappers… and awarded himself a nice sum of the profits.

Certainly he never found time to enter the blasted ale house or give audience to its bloody keeper. He wondered if Grace was waiting to be picked up on her illegal pelts any day, which he knew had been moved to another secret storage room before Grant received them. Or if she expected him to do as Benton had threatened, awarding the ale house to someone else in retaliation. But he assumed not. No, she would be sitting serenely in her rooms above the common room, sipping the strong liquor she favored, safe in the knowledge that he in turn expected to be knifed by someone else who held a grudge, or maybe she could convince Grant that the acting Governor was in the way. Hell, maybe Harp would rise from the ashes and come after him, penance for having stood beside Benton so loyally through all the madness.

He quickly stopped that train of thought, before the paranoia set in again and he did something stupid. Instead he focused on yet another ledger, this one of the fort’s gold and silver reserves, and calculated how likely it was that, lacking Benton’s connections in London, he'd be running out of coin months before the next shipment.

The answer was simple: very. The trickier question was what he would do then. As an officer, he couldn't just  _ not  _ pay his men. As the local representative of the HBC, he couldn't risk angering the trappers lest they turned and sold their wares to the French— who had started attacking other English forts further inland. Yet another reason to pay his soldiers.

But he also knew that he was not alone in this conundrum, so he set up letters to several other outposts whose leaders he had met before, asking how they fared, hoping, in a roundabout way, for advice and inspiration.

The doors opened; his stomach informed him that it was dinner time, so he didn't even bother to look up from the letter. “Leave it on the table over there.” He waved his hand in its general direction. When the boot steps continued towards him, he lifted his eyes prepared to demand to know what the man was thinking— the chair scraped over the floor as he stood up abruptly. “Grace!”

She carried a bowl of stew, hesitating only briefly in her advance. Once she reached the desk she put the food down right in front of him, on top of the papers, all the while holding his gaze unflinchingly.

When she still said nothing to explain herself, he couldn't take it anymore. “Is it poisoned?”

Taken aback, she glanced at the stew. “No!”

Her accent rolled over him like honey, and he smiled at the irony of her sounding so offended at the implication that she might plot his early demise. “I thought maybe you'd come to watch, make damn sure I choke on it, seeing as how last time didn't quite work out as you'd wished.”

That got the fire blazing in her eyes again. “Don't try to play the martyr with me, Chesterfield! You threatened to kill me! Multiple times even,  _ after _ our partnership started. And you— It was only a matter of time until you simply took what you desired without bothering to ask _. _ ”

Guilt exploded in his guts, making him queasy. He'd fantasized, yes, to take her by storm, but each time within seconds of being in his arms, she'd sweetly surrender. Never actually against her will, just… pushing past her self-restraint.

Immediately, he bit down the shame, welcoming how it compacted into ice-cold anger. How dare she blame him for something he  _ hadn’t  _ actually done? Through clenched teeth he grit, “Just say what you came here to say.” He needed her out of here, find his equilibrium again. Not five minutes in her presence and he was ready to punch somebody bloody again.

Grace didn’t continue right away. She studied him some more, reading his soul, God damn this woman to hell, as plain as a book. It seemed to give her the answers she was searching for, because her expression softened. He knew her well enough, too, to see how she shifted tactics, and readied himself for her manipulations.

“You have done well here.” She straightened, pushing back from the desk, a gesture encompassing the room, the entire fort beyond. “Cleaning up the chaos left in Benton’s wake.”

Warm pride spread through his chest at her words, and yet he snorted, unwilling to acknowledge her compliment. He had heard her talk this gently before, with her bar wenches, whom she considered ‘her people’ and protected. With others only ever if she wanted something from them. Grace wasn’t simply  _ kind _ for no reason.

“How would you know?”

Twisting around, there was a cutting retort on the tip of her tongue, he could tell. Probably because he’d made it sound like he doubted her competence to comment on the fort’s business. But she reconsidered, swallowed it down. Patience thin, she simply explained, “Your men still frequent the ale house; you’re their favorite topic of conversation. Governorship suits you, they say.”

That picture did not look right to him, imagining the men under his command discussing him other than to complain and commiserate, yet too fearful of insubordination to say it to his face.

“You’ve incorporated the leaderless ranks of late Captain Johnson into your own. And Everton would be the first to point out how there has been no instance of corporal punishment, just latrine duty and endless drills.”

He shrugged, having figured that he could always tighten the reigns if it ever became necessary. Once you arrived at fifty lashes in the yard, it was hard to escalate the penalty without outright killing his own soldiers. The gamble he’d taken on it was whether his men would recognize him as a different leader, now as Governor, than he was as their mere Captain. Maybe all the hard work in the past days was paying off.

Again, Grace looked at him so intently he felt the urge to tug his jacket into place. “I had to see for myself, but I do agree with them: You have changed. You’re still  _ you _ , but… different.”

Not sure what to make of that statement, or really the intent behind it, he was saved from having to reply when Grace lifted the stew bowl, allowing him to rescue the half-finished letter from underneath. As he carefully rolled the papers up and set it in the drawer with those already sealed, he wondered if she had glanced at their content, gleaned their meaning.

“You know, there's a reason I usually eat at the side table.”

“Here,” she said as she put the dish back on the desk, ignoring the hint gleefully. Out of a coat pocket, she pulled a cloth-wrapped slice of bread, and a wooden spoon clearly from the ale house.

He thought briefly of the silverware in the cupboard drawers in the hall. But food tasted different from it, in a not entirely pleasant way; it wouldn't hurt to reminisce for one meal.

After he'd taken both bread and spoon from her, with a fond smile he had never seen aimed at himself, Grace turned and left.

Digging out the chunks of mutton to eat first –old soldier’s habit, eat the meat while you can– he pondered why it felt like the earth had just shifted.

*

“My cook has informed me that it ‘doesn't befit a Governor, be he from royal blood or not, to eat with the common soldiers.’”

Grace looked even more quizzical at him, after he’d made a beeline for her standing behind the bar in the ale house. “Sounds to me like your cook is trying really hard to not be out of a job. But if you're not here for the food… you're here for the drink?” she ventured.

He chuckled, and it was a regrettably unfamiliar feeling. “Got it in one.”

At that she pulled over a mug and started drafting ale into it.

“Actually,” he said tentatively, heart in his throat –unreasonably really, what was there to be afraid of? What was one more rejection? “I was hoping to talk to you in private.”

The ale kept flowing while she eyed him. Probably gauged his purpose. In the end she only nodded, rolling her head in the direction of her office.

Mug in hand he made a quick round of the room to clap a couple of men in their shoulders for jobs well done; then he followed her to the back.

As soon as he'd stepped through the doorway of the office, Grace switched his mug of ale with a tumbler of French brandy. She smiled secretively, because he had yet to discover her connection for the illegal liquor.

They both settled in the overstuffed chairs.

“Was there a specific reason you wished to speak?” Grace asked after a long moment of silence.

Always business, that woman.

“Several,” he hedged. He had long debated if he should approach her about the money issue at all, but their recent truce had given him hope to find one more ally, particularly one so creative. “Firstly, I wondered how we would resolve our deal with Grant.”

Her face darkened, clearly expecting demands.

He quickly raised his hands, and demonstratively leaned back in the chair. “Unless you were planning to cut me out entirely, I'm willing to listen to your offer.”

“You held up your end,” Grace acknowledged. He was glad she did, he wouldn't have liked needing to convince her, remind her of the time things went sour between them.

“I had taken the first risk, being the one who gave the order to misplace those furs. You on the other hand managed to find us a buyer… even if I would have preferred to be consulted in your choice. And you have hidden the furs well ever since.”

She sent him another long, careful glance out of the corner of her eye, facing the fireplace rather than him directly.  _ Yes, I know where they are stashed _ , he thought.

But once again, she surprised him: “You— well, the Governor… needs money, doesn't he?”

Damn her, how did she do this? Had she pieced it together from the letters?

“Governorship comes with enough perks to keep you in happy spirits for more than a mere couple of weeks. If you're still desperate for money, there has to be a bigger reason than greed,” she explained unprompted. Like she wanted to show off a little. 

Her pride, having seen a chink in  _ her  _ armor for once, amused him; and really, he'd come to associate this –relishing an intellectual challenge– with Grace. Lord help him if she ever learned of that sentiment.

Sighing, he gave in. “Yes. The gold reserves are going to run low by the end of next month, and although it will depend on the weather, even the silver will certainly not last through the winter.”

Eyes wide, Grace stared for a moment. Then her brows drew together, and he pre-empted the following question. “Last year, Benton arranged for a discreet shipment of gold through friends and borrowers, to stock up. He hid it from the other forts in the province and left them to their own devices; yet another power he held over them.”

“I will see if we can get Grant to pay up before the end of winter. He will take possession of the goods next week. I was—” She cut herself off, and that more than anything raised his interest in whatever she wasn’t saying.

“Yes?” he prodded, but she remained stubbornly quiet. He probably should count himself lucky that she had shared any part of her plan at all. “All right, then tell me at least this: are we still talking about an equal share?”

“I believe it is to my own advantage to say yes, seeing as how your share will pay the patrons of the ale house.”

That wrung another smile from him, despite his resolution to negotiate hard. In an almost disorienting epiphany, he realized that had he not divulged the fort’s issue with hard currency, she might have resisted more. Yet another thing he better not mention to her. He could already hear her gloat, talking about partnership and sharing and finding solutions they could all benefit from.

“What was your other question?”

She stood up to refill her glass, so he followed. This was best discussed on his feet, especially if she cussed him out. He came in close, towering over her. Took away her tumbler and set both aside. Nevertheless she remained untroubled, safe in the knowledge of his inability to cause her harm, while he couldn't remember ever feeling so anxious in his life.

“I— you know how I feel about you.” He stumbled over his words; now that the moment was here he had no more of an idea how to breach the subject than before, loath to say the words outright. Although he had hoped for sudden enlightenment under pressure. “I would like to know if you felt… similarly?”

There was a pause before she answered. “Had you asked me that a month ago, I would have laughed in your face.” Grace’s eyes were still calm and soft, looking up at him so intimately. And then, amazingly, her hand rose to settle on the hinge of his jaw. Her fingernails scratched lightly through the beard, soothing an itch that hadn't been there before.

He didn't dare move a muscle, lest he spooked her, made her realize the insanity she was committing according to her own rules. “And now?”

“I can make no promises—”

“I don't expect any.”

“—but I do like getting to know the real you. The one that doesn't hide his fears and hopes behind a veneer of violence, even if it was to stay sane in the face of madness.”

Jesus, she would be the death of him, even if she wasn't actively trying to kill him anymore. Her insight into his very soul was frightening.

His fingers twitched at his side, still bound by the old spell, traumatized by the nightmare. “Please,” he whispered.

Her hand slid down into his, encouraging their fingers to tangle. “Go ahead,” she whispered back, before stretching her neck, rising on her toes, and touching their lips together.

The merest press, a kiss sweet as honey, so unlike any of their previous interactions. He squeezed her hand and let go, setting it on her hip, the other on the back of her neck, threading into the red hair. It was wonderful to be allowed to touch, feel her skin against his. Coming here, he had thought it impossible. That she would rebuff him again because he had long since ruined anything there might have been, probably even before he met her in person, through reputation alone. But here they were, in the embrace he had dreamed of.

He could stand it only briefly, before it got too real, too much what he truly wanted and she could not give… yet.

But it also emboldened him to take more of what she  _ was _ offering. Slowly, giving her time to recognize his intent, his fingers tightened in her hair. It drew a soft moan from her, and she retaliated by biting into his lower lip –just this side of painful. He growled in return… and so the floodgates opened.

He attacked her clothes, her stupid man's clothes which were anything but conducive to a passionate coupling. That was part of the point, he knew, but right now he despised Grace's choice of dress more than he usually respected her fierce independence.

Grace further impeded his plan by pushing at the uniform coat, trapping his arms at the elbows until he gave up on her stay’s lacings for a moment and shook it off. Coat out of the way, he also got rid of the gorget and baldrick, its attached daggers and rapier; the uniform simply had too many pieces. She popped buttons and he untied bindings, while they bit-kissed at mouths and jaws and necks. It wasn't enough.

Lord, it had been a while since he'd last felt so eager. Grace reached skin first and he gasped involuntarily, as she petted his stomach and chest. At that point he gave up and ripped her shirt upwards carelessly. Grace laughed, delighted, and helped. She’d barely thrown everything onto one of the stuffed armchairs, that he was already reaching for her again, crushing their chests together.

It felt incredible; his hands spanned her shoulder blades easily, making her appear slight and fragile in his mind. But then Grace pushed, maneuvered him backwards until he tripped and sat heavily in one of the armchairs, and he remembered again that this woman was tough as sinew and unrelenting as a stone wall.

She stood in front of him, undoing the buttons in her breeches teasingly.

“Good Captain Chesterfield,” she said with a smirk and toed off her boots. “I shall have your hand.”

“In  _ you _ if not in marriage,” he answered, unable to resist the jibe.

Grace just grinned and let her breeches and underthings fall, finally gloriously naked. He’d long since forgotten to move, enthralled by this red-haired vixen, this Scottish seductress.

“I shall lend you mine as well afterwards.” With that she straddled him, knees pushing into the space between his hip and the armrests.

No, he’d get no say in this encounter, but that was all right. He planned to show her that he could and was all too willing to please her.

Instead of touching her right away, he pulled off the uniform shirt, leaving him naked to the waist. Since she hadn't commanded he take his breeches and boots off as well, she probably didn't care that he was still half-dressed. At least not yet, while she still sought her own satisfaction first.

Grace rewarded him with a swift kiss, angling his face up to meet her. Her fingernails scritched over his scalp, and he rubbed her back. He felt each shift, each movement of her arms translating down along her spine.

It didn’t take long at all for Grace to become impatient, taking one of his wrists and pulling it forward. And so he ran his fingers lightly over each breast, raising goosebumps on her skin. He pulled away from the kiss to watch her nipples peak, and set his lips against them instead.

She sighed, and again when his roaming hand reached the soft skin south of her navel.

“Jonathan!” she growled, because he’d stopped there.

Oh, he’d do anything for her using his first name. “Yes, Grace?” he replied innocently. But at the same time he let his fingers push through the wiry hair, between the folds, seeking where she was slickest.

She hiccuped a short, breathy moan, and he chuckled. Her hips were already undulating against him; maybe he wasn’t the only one eager. That thought sent a proud, primal thrill through him.

His middle finger traced her opening, but he didn’t yet push in; instead he let it travel the length, down and up again, until she jerked in his hold. Then he did it again. And again.

Grace’s head rolled almost limply, resting her forehead against his and he could smell her breath, the brandy lending it a smoky scent. He stared at her from this closeness, took in the concentration on her face. Her hips moved with his fingers, keeping him at the front for a moment longer, then circled so he rolled over the nub there sideways. Three quick passes, and she shuddered heavily, letting him return to the back-and-forth motion.

She was panting by now, kneading distractedly at the base of his skull, half-lost in ecstasy. Nevertheless, she demanded another kiss simply by catching his mouth. He was only too happy to oblige. And chose that moment to push in his middle finger.

His entire palm was wet, and he entered without any resistance. Yet it seemed to shock her, gasping into the kiss. He stilled for a moment, until she ground her body down against him again, slightly desperate now.

Her eyes were closed; her hair brushed over his chest where it had fallen over her shoulders. It made him feel ravenous, made the hand remaining on her hip grip more tightly. She was every bit as beautiful as he’d imagined, and yet very much in control. At that moment he wondered if he hadn’t finally driven past her resolve as much as she had manipulated him into giving her exactly what she wished.

On the next rhythm he gave her his forefinger as well, curling them, twisting his hand a little to ensure the heel of his hand would press against the pearl at the top of her core.

“Yes!” Grace started bucking more forcefully, chanting “yeah like that there don’t stop” although he had no intention of stopping even if his wrist was starting to ache from the strange angle.

Suddenly he noticed her eyes were open again, boring into him. If he’d ever thought she might feel vulnerable in the throes of passion, dear God, he’d been wrong. Because that look claimed him, demanded everything of him.

Then her eyes slammed shut and she bent backwards; if he hadn’t still had a grip on her hip she might have toppled over. For a good second or two she was taut as a bowstring, her inner muscles clamping his fingers into place.

And then she heaved in a breath, sank against him, her entire body softening in his arms. 

With a heavy throb, his cock called his attention. He ignored it, Grace’s promise coming to mind.

Instead he languidly pumped his fingers a few more times, enjoying the way she shuddered but didn’t complain. He withdrew from her, and wrapped his arms around her, gathering her to him and was silently glad for the fire going strong, because she had worked up quite a sweat.

As she settled her weight on him fully again, she must have noticed the hardness straining his breeches, because she brushed her lips against his jaw and whispered, “Give me a moment. I won’t keep you waiting long.”

He grinned, enjoying her state of undoing as its own kind of reward.

“That’s quite all right,” he said, and angled her head for another deep kiss into which he poured everything she had already recognized in his eyes. There was nothing left to hide.


End file.
